


Dumping the Spit

by zarabithia



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boxing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-13
Updated: 2007-01-13
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: As Dick struggles to live up to Bruce Wayne's legacy, one person is his constant.





	Dumping the Spit

Bruce Wayne was a legend, and no one knew that better than his adopted son.

From the moment the World Heavyweight Champion had taken in the young runaway lurking outside his gym, Dick Grayson had no other goal in life than to fill the older boxer's shoes. Despite pleas to the contrary and discouragement from both Wayne's manager and his trainer, the young teen had devoted all his energy to obtaining that goal.

Some days, Roy hated Kent and Gordon for not trying hard enough to prevent the kid from following in Wayne's path. On others, Roy hated Wayne for not having sense enough to make turn the kid over to protective services that would have made sure he was put into a real home with real parents.There was even the occasional day in which Roy hated _himself_ for being weak enough to pick up the needle that had lead to a sentence of community service wherein his path had first crossed with Grayson's.

"Some day, I'm gonna be that good," Grayson had promised to the bitter street punk Roy was sure he'd been at sixteen. Under Wayne’s supervision, Roy had been serving out his sentence, emptying the spit buckets once they’d gotten full - a nasty job, but one of the few anyone was willing to give a teen drug dealer and a hell of a lot better than getting tossed in the slammer for breaking the terms of his parole. Grayson, meanwhile, had been engaged in the art of Wayne-worshiping that he'd later go on to perfect. It really should have been a goddamn clue, and would have been, if Roy's younger self had possessed a lick of sense.

But clearly, he hadn't. Because during that summer that Roy had spent dumping Wayne's spit into the locker room toilet, he'd developed a hard case of hero worship himself.

And it damn sure hadn't been over Wayne.

In the years that had passed since then, a lot had changed in both their lives. Marriages, a baby, and starlets had threatened to come between them, but when the sparkle around Grayson faded to the complicated blues and grays of his private persona, Kory, Bridget, Cheyenne, and Donna had all retreated to the bright lights of Hollywood and even Dick's own brilliant red-headed manager had given up hope for a stable relationship with a man living so firmly in the shadow of his famous father.

Roy hadn't given up. Not even when Bruce had thrown all the years of loyalty and devotion back into Dick's lap after a particularly bad loss against The Killer Croc. Roy had stood helplessly by as Wayne quit training the man who had worshiped him for so long and started training up-and-coming amateur Jason Todd. The mood swings, depression, and financial ruin that came with the loss of Wayne's backing had been difficult to endure. But he'd been Dick's main sparring partner since they’d first snuck in a few rounds between spit bucket duty, and if the blows came a little bit harder than they used to, Roy could take it.

On the day that Dick asked him to take over duties as his trainer, Roy's decision to stay seemed worth it.

During the fight that was sure to be one of many dubbed "The Fight of the Century," but the only one that Roy actually cared about, Roy was doubly glad he had been allowed to take over the reigns Wayne had abandoned. Because watching Deathstroke break Grayson repeatedly from the nearness of his corner was bad enough. Had he been forced to sit in the audience and watch the match without being able to _do_ anything, Roy wouldn't have been able to stand it. That might have been the one thing that would have led him to abandon Dick, because he would have had to leave the stadium five minutes into round one. As it was, all he could do was wipe Dick's cuts ,offer strategy - that didn't help at all against Wilson - squeeze Tim's shoulder between rounds, and pray to whatever god that might be listening to allow Dick to walk away from the fight with his life.

He walked away with a lot more. And when the press was gone and the doctors had checked him over, Roy helped the limping Heavy Weight Champion of the World into the locker room.

It was a lot bigger than the one at Wayne's old gym, but it brought back a lot of memories that Roy stifled as he removed Grayson's gloves while Dick all but collapsed into a bloodied, broken heap on the bench, belt clattering beside them on the floor. Despite the doc patching him up, the man still bled an impressive amount all over the white towels he sat on as well as on Roy’s fingers as the trainer hoisted him up against a row of lockers. But Roy was mostly focused on those swollen, cracked, and bruised hands. They were Grayson's livelihood, yet the abuse they'd taken during that fight. . . As it was, Grayson would be out of commission for a long time waiting on those to heal.

"Hey," Dick interrupted, a lazy smile slicing across his bruised and battered face. "You aren't supposed to look that way when we _win._ "

Roy didn't fake a smile, because they didn't lie to each other. "You did a damn fine job out there, Little Bird. Worth all those beatings I gave you in sparring?"

Dick chuckled and winced as the laugh assaulted his ribs. "Beatings my -" He stopped abruptly as the clash of metal alerted them to someone else in the locker room. Roy's green eyes darkened, and he was rather prepared to give the intruder the beating of his life.

Until the intruder in question was revealed to be a ten year old boy. A very familiar, very annoying ten year old boy. "Get outta here, Matt," Roy growled, concern for Dick overriding his patience. "You know the rules better than anybody. You aren't allowed back here."

Ignoring him, the kid focused on Grayson. "You have pretty shitty security, Mister Grayson," the kid said, feigning a politeness that Roy knew the brat didn't possess.

"I'll keep that in mind," Dick responded, apparently amused.

"You've got ten seconds to spit out whatever you're here for," Roy warned.

Still ignoring him, the kid continued, "I just wanted to say that you did a really good job. Me and my dad watched the whole thing. Dad says you're probably the best outside-fighter alive and he never had any doubt you could take on a swarmer like Deathstroke and win."

"Tell your dad I said thanks, Matt," Dick said softly, "But I can't take all the credit. I've got a hell of a trainer."

Roy fought down the validation he shouldn't have felt when the ten year old looked at him and nodded. "Yeah. Nice work, Harper."

"Get.Out. _Now._ " This time, the kid actually listened.

"You're so mean to that poor kid," Dick teased. Underneath the light tone, Roy saw Grayson close his eyes and lock his jaw as Roy began to massage the fighter's left hand. Roy knew it hurt, he'd had similar injuries himself, though never as bad. But he also knew that if he didn't massage away the kinks now, Dick would have little chance of moving his hands tomorrow. Which is why he was patient with his technique, even as he wanted nothing more than to finish stripping Dick, get him in the shower, take him home, and watch him sleep peacefully through the night, in a way the fighter hadn't done in a long time. But then, who would, leading up a fight with Deathstroke?

"I don’t trust the kid. There's something wrong with anyone who volunteers to empty spit buckets without a court order forcing them to do so," Roy responded, squeezing Dick's palm between his thumb and index finger. The trainer's smoother skin contrasted painfully against the cuts and calluses along Dick's palm. Carefully, Roy focused his attention on the individual fingers of the hand, moving them in slow but steady circular motions.

"He's The Devil's kid. Second best boxer in the history of the sport. Matty can't be all that bad."

"He's a little red-headed twerp."

"There's something to be said for red-headed twerps. Tend to turn out okay."

Roy moved the flow of his ministrations to the battered surface of Dick's hand, cringing as his fingers worked across the freshly made wounds atop of years-old scars across Grayson's knuckles. Dick gave a sharp intake of breath, but his eyes remained closed, even as his fist automatically curled.Cursing internally, Roy pried that fist back open.

He'd just moved onto the right hand when Dick spoke again. "Bruce called. While you and Tim were beating away the reporters."

"Yeah?" Grayson had taken enough beatings for the night; Roy wasn't going to tell him that his father was an asshole. Besides, it wasn't like that was a newsflash or anything.

"Yeah. Said he was proud of me."

"Should have been a long time ago." The blood on the towels had dried, and Roy moved to the fingers of Dick's right hand.

"Maybe. Kind of glad he wasn't. He doesn't give nearly as good hand massages as you do. And if he'd stayed, you might not be here. I'm glad you're here, Roy."

"Me too, Little Bird." Roy moved to the knuckles, rubbing his palm against them, as his own fingers continued to stroke the ones on Dick‘s hand. When he was finished, he looked at Dick, mentally cataloging each new bruise, cut and tear of Dick's flesh and comparing it to the ones that had come before. "You ready for that shower?"

"Yeah, I think I can stand on my own two feet now. Probably had long enough of a break." Dick opened his eyes again, and Roy tried not to think about how the blue in them matched more of his face than it clashed against.

"You sure? If you need more time to get your bearings, we can wait. Hell, I can find another part of your body to massage."

"I think the massages can wait til we get home. Help me up?"

Roy slid his arm underneath Dick as the other man rose. The combination of sweat and blood seeped through Roy's clothes, causing the material to cling to Roy's body. Slowly, Roy pushed the boxing trunks to the floor, while still keeping one hand on Grayson to steady the fighter. As Grayson attempted to take a step out of the trunks pooled at his feet, Dick's first step was a fumble, and only Roy's arms beneath him preventing the other man from falling. "Easy, Grayson. I've got you."

Dick gave him another lazy grin befitting a winner. "Always?"

"Always."  



End file.
